


Pressing Flowers

by turtle_wexler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Bisexual Hermione Granger, Eventual Fluff, F/M, HEA, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, brief Hermione/Padma, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29880945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtle_wexler/pseuds/turtle_wexler
Summary: Snape jerks away from her, but it is too late. Stars rain down on them from the top of the stone arch. Hermione has seen those stars before, falling on Bill and Fleur.“Snape,” she says. “Does that mean what I think it means?”She doesn’t need to ask. Of course it does.“I believe so, yes.”They are married.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 89
Kudos: 254
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a continuation of a drabble that I wrote for blackcoffee13. If you've read my drabble collection, you'll probably recognise the first part of this chapter. Thank you to Vitellia and Morbidmuch for beta and alpha reading, respectively, and for just being wonderful. 💖 I also exist on [tumblr](https://turtlewexlerwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi.
> 
> I have five chapters in my outline for this one, but who knows whether that will be accurate. Certainly not me.

This wasn’t in any of the books.

Calves burning from exertion, Hermione trudges up yet another hill after Snape. She read everything she could about how to find the elusive sponsa flower. They are in the right forest; she knows it. She translated the runes, pinpointed the exact location on a map, found all of the correct landmarks. What the books neglected to mention is that the woods are so bloody hilly. 

“We could have brought brooms,” Snape says, glancing back at her over his shoulder. He isn’t even winded. Bastard.

Hermione shudders. “Absolutely not.”

“Hmm. I suppose you’re right. I do not require a broom to fly.”

“You are not flying off and leaving me here.”

“Who said anything about leaving you?”

The hint of dark promise in his voice makes Hermione’s steps falter. For a moment, she pictures herself wrapped around him as he soars above the treetops. She gives herself a mental shake.

“The exercise will do us good,” she says bracingly. “And anyway, I think we’re almost there.”

They are not almost there. It takes another hour of climbing and descending and fighting their way through the underbrush before they reach a clearing full of delicate white flowers that look like miniature bridal veils.

They get to work harvesting their prize, using the special goblin-made secateurs that Snape managed to borrow. Most of the flowers are inside a fairy ring of glowing mushrooms, twined around the stone arch Hermione’s books mentioned. Stepping inside the ring, she gathers a bouquet of flowers. 

Nothing seems out of the ordinary. At first. The instant Snape crosses the perimeter of the ring, a shiver of unfamiliar magic courses through Hermione. She was wearing hiking gear when they set out: mud-caked boots, quick-dry trousers, and a waterproof jacket. Not a diaphanous white gown with intricate embroidery. Snape’s Muggle clothing is replaced by formal robes and a sweeping black cape. 

In unison, they reach for their wands. Gone. 

“Erm,” she says.

“Yes,” Snape says. “Quite.”

The books did not mention this, either.

Thanking her past self for spending so much time on mastering wandless magic, Hermione stands back to back with Snape. As her hand brushes his, hundreds of flecks of golden light swirl through the woods around them. A ghostly, insubstantial ribbon wraps around their wrists and binds them together.

Snape jerks away from her, but it is too late. Stars rain down on them from the top of the stone arch. Hermione has seen those stars before, falling on Bill and Fleur.

“Snape,” she says. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

She doesn’t need to ask. Of course it does.

“I believe so, yes.”

They are married.

* * *

The gown keeps getting in the way. Hermione wants to let her feet fly over the uneven forest path, powered by adrenaline. Instead, she trips over cobwebby white silk. And the dainty shoes that replaced her sturdy hiking boots have slippery soles. Fine for swaying in a ballroom, but when trekking through the woods? Useless.

Without a word, Snape takes her arm to steady her.

“How is this possible?” she asks, kicking the shoes off. She will take her chances with bare feet. “Marriage requires witnesses, an officiant… It can’t possibly be legally binding.”

“Yes, how _is_ it possible?” he snaps. “You’re the one who insisted you knew where to find the flowers.”

“This is _not_ my fault.”

“I fail to see who else could be at fault.”

“Two of us worked on that research, in case you forgot. And hey, instead of bickering, maybe we could keep moving? It’s getting dark.”

The colour slowly leaches out of the forest as they continue, night turning everything to greyscale. Every rustle of branches and whisper of wind sounds like a threat, making her fingers itch for her absent wand. She holds the secateurs like a weapon.

“How long until we get desperate enough to try wandless Apparition?” she asks.

“A bit longer.”

Hermione’s hands go clammy at the thought. “Have you ever done it?”

He takes a moment before he replies. “Once. Have you?” 

“I tried, but there were wards up to stop me.”

Phantom pain burns through her, the ghost of a knife digging into her throat. Snape’s grip tightens on her arm as they climb over a tangle of tree roots.

At last, they reach the road. As they have no wands, no money, and no possessions apart from a basket full of flowers and some goblin-made secateurs, it is not exactly a relief. Even in the dark, Hermione can sense Snape’s glare.

“Let’s go down to the village,” she says. “Is there a shirt and trousers under those robes? Take the robes off and put them over your arm so it looks like you’re carrying a jacket or something. If we can persuade someone to let us use a phone, there’s a chance we can contact Arthur.”

“Who thought it was a good idea to let Arthur Weasley have a telephone?”

“Me. I got him an old mobile last Christmas. He mostly uses it to play Snake and send me incomprehensible texts. I hope it’s charged.”

The village looks like the sort of place that shuts down at sunset: all stone cottages and immaculate gardens. The pub is, mercifully, still open. Snape spins a tale about their car breaking down en route from their wedding to their honeymoon, and the barman lets them use the phone. Thanking the fact that she has had to recite Arthur’s own number to him often enough that she has it memorised, Hermione dials.

_Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring._

“HELLO!”

Molly’s indignant voice pipes up in the background, threatening to cast a Reducto on Arthur’s precious _fellytone_ if he doesn’t keep his voice down. His ridiculous telephone shouting never sounded so sweet to Hermione’s ears. Breathing out a long sigh, she closes her eyes in relief.

“Hi Arthur,” she says. “It’s Hermione. Sorry to call so late, but Severus and I need your help. We’re stranded.”

Ten minutes later, they meet Arthur near the village playing fields. He is all smiles, rumpled from sleep.

“Blimey, you two look nice,” he says, beaming at them. “Have you been at a party?”

“Quite the opposite,” Snape mutters. 

“Sorry again to bother you, Arthur,” Hermione says before he can ask any more questions about their activities. “We don’t have our wands. Would you take us Side-Along back to Hogwarts, please?”

“Of course. It’s no bother at all.” Holding out an arm for them to grab, he chuckles. “No wands? What have you two been up to?” The smile slides away. “I hope it wasn’t anything dangerous.”

Snape’s hand settles on Arthur’s forearm. “Rather perilous, it turns out.”

* * *

At the Hogwarts gates, Arthur sends his weasel Patronus to wake Hagrid for them. Hagrid’s reaction upon seeing them is much like Arthur’s: he asks where they have been, looking so fancy. _Almost like a bride, Hermione._ Snape gives both Arthur and Hagrid a curt nod, storming ahead to the castle and leaving Hermione behind. She sighs.

“We’ve just been gathering potions ingredients, Hagrid,” she says. “It’s a long story. Thank you both for your help.”

Her own steps drag up the path. Her legs ache from trudging up and down hills, and her head is whirring with an attempt at an action plan. Tomorrow, they will go to Diagon Alley and visit Ollivander. Once they have wands, they can tackle the whole _marriage_ problem.

Marriage. Her stomach turns over. She can’t be married. She’s in a relationship, for Merlin’s sake. 

A relationship with someone she hasn’t properly seen in two months.

Shoving that thought aside, she makes her way to her quarters near Gryffindor Tower. Three months of teaching Transfiguration, and she still feels like a guest in the castle—like a student dressing up in a professor’s clothes. It has been a decade since she actually was a student. Did Snape ever feel like this when he first started teaching?

Hmm. Probably not.

When she finally reaches her quarters, Crookshanks shoots her a glare that clearly says, _“And what time do you call this?”_ and goes back to sleep in front of the fire. Hermione quite agrees with that glare. She needs a bath before she can finally crawl into bed, but she can’t face the prospect of shampooing, conditioning, detangling, drying. Her hair will have to wait. Tying it up in a headscarf, she wriggles out of the dress and opens the tap on the side of the tub that releases her favourite citrus scented bubble bath.

The water is heavenly—just the right side of scalding. Hermione scrubs her sore feet and contemplates napping right where she is, but no. Bed will be more comfortable. Climbing out of the tub, she dries off and pulls on her pyjamas. She should hang the dress up in the wardrobe, lest the elves get any ideas about laundering it before she and Snape can examine it.

Entering the bedroom makes her stop cold. It has grown in her absence. The ceiling is taller, bookcases stretching high enough to require an intimidating ladder. Unfamiliar titles have invaded the shelves, crammed up against her books. The rug in front of the fireplace—silver vines on a green background—that’s new. And the bed… 

Someone pounds on the door. Heart racing, she runs through the sitting room. As expected, it isn’t a distraught student. Snape stands there, still in his magical wedding attire, still holding the secateurs and basket of flowers.

“Snape, what—”

“I find myself unable to sleep,” he says in a tight voice. “My quarters have vanished.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Previously: “Snape, what—”_

_“I find myself unable to sleep,” he says in a tight voice. “My quarters have vanished.”_

* * *

Removing her glasses, Minerva pinches the bridge of her nose. Severus recognises that gesture. She performed it every other day during his first year of teaching. Usually when Albus cheerfully told her that Severus would soon find his stride, and that he probably wouldn’t make _every_ Gryffindor cry.

“I have not had enough sleep to deal with this,” she says. “Married? Merlin, I… Sort yourselves out for the night. Severus, have the elves make up guest quarters for you. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

Her green tartan dressing gown billows out behind her as she stalks from the room. She blatantly copied that move from him.

Yawning, Granger rubs her eyes. “You can stay on my sofa if you want.”

Severus looks askance at the item of furniture in question. Its thin, dark blue cushions are liberally dusted with ginger cat hair. Absolutely not.

“I will take my chances with the elves,” he says.

* * *

“Castle says no.”

Severus glowers down at the pillowcase clad elf. “What do you mean the castle says no?”

Winky shrugs. “Room won’t open. Is Professor Snape wanting anything else? Warm milk? It is helping you sleep.”

“No, thank you.”

Not knowing where else to go (the Room of Requirement having been destroyed during the Final Battle), Severus returns to Granger’s quarters. This is, after all, her fault.

“What now?” she asks. Her head lolls against the door frame, as if she’ll fall asleep where she stands if he isn’t quick about it.

“The elves were unable to fulfill my request,” he says. “As this is your fault, you should take the sofa and allow me use of the bed.”

She snorts. “No. Whether it’s my fault is up for debate, but it’s definitely _my_ bed.”

“I think you’ll find that it is _our_ bed, Madam Snape.”

“Fine. Sleep there, then. As long as you do it quietly, I don’t care.” She turns to march away, then whirls back and points a finger at him. “And don’t call me that.”

“Would you prefer pumpkin? Muffin?” Recalling her Polyjuice mishap in her second year, he lets his mouth curl into an unpleasant smile. “Kitten?”

The look she gives him could curdle milk. “Bathroom is through there,” she says, waving an arm at a closed door. “I imagine your things are in the wardrobe. Spare blankets are in the chest at the foot of the bed. And if you don’t let me get some sleep soon, it will not matter that I am currently without a wand. You’ll be able to call me a widow.”

The bathroom is still clouded with steam from her bath. It feels unsettlingly intimate, breathing in such a concentrated version of her citrus scent. The same scent he has caught in whiffs when they talk in the staffroom, when they huddle over research together. Severus finds his toothbrush at the back of the cabinet, behind more hair products than any one person has any business owning. Another bit of startling intimacy.

Teeth cleaned and face washed, he walks into the bedroom, making no effort to be quiet. His clothes are, in fact, hanging there in the wardrobe next to hers, his pyjamas folded on the shelf. Granger lies curled up on one side of the large bed, under _his_ duvet. He does not for one second entertain the notion of climbing in next to her. No matter what might have happened in the woods, they are still colleagues. 

It is due to this professional relationship that he does not whip the duvet off of her and claim it for himself. Instead, he gets a blanket from the chest she mentioned, letting the lid slam shut. 

Granger throws a pillow at him.

The sofa is not the most welcoming bed Severus has ever had, but it’s far from the worst. Why did the castle choose to keep her sofa, rather than his? Was it protecting his furniture from being upholstered in cat hair? Stretching out on the lumpy cushions, he sighs. However he imagined this day ending, this is certainly not it.

And what _did_ he imagine? Severus clenches his eyes shut. Best not to dwell on that.

Something heavy and warm leaps onto his chest: Granger’s cat. The beast turns in a full circle, presenting its arse to Severus’s face as it settles down to sleep.

Typical. Just bloody typical.

* * *

Snape is _snuggling_ with Crookshanks. There is no other word for it.

Standing in her open bedroom doorway, Hermione blinks several times and pinches herself. Nope. She is fully awake, and Snape is still asleep on her sofa, one hand resting on the cat dozing on his chest. Crooks has his face nestled against Snape’s chin. 

A fist pounding against the door wakes both wizard and cat. Hermione turns and speeds towards the door, as if that was her destination from the start and she was not staring at him snuggling with her cat in his sleep. Opening the door, Hermione comes face to face with her girlfriend for the first time in two months.

“Hi,” Hermione says, glancing over her shoulder at Snape. “Err—”

“Good morning,” Padma says crisply. “Would you mind explaining why your marriage to Severus Snape was registered in my department overnight?”

Fuck. That answers the question of legality. Padma works in the Department of Magical Marriages, Births, and Deaths. Which is bloody unfortunate.

“It’s kind of a long story. We were gathering some flowers, and—”

“And you accidentally got married?”

“Well. Yes, actually.”

“Unbelievable,” Padma mutters under her breath. “You act like I only exist when it’s convenient for you, and now, you enter into a bond that…” She huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Fine. We were already done, but now I guess it’s official. Enjoy married life. And Snape, _good luck_.”

With that, Padma marches away. Hermione stands there for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. Different partner, same old story. Ron, Daphne, Susan—all of them tired of competing with work and research for her attention. Hermione doesn’t understand why it has to be a competition in the first place. She would be happy to sit quietly with a partner most evenings, each focused on their own tasks. It is not as if she has ever missed an anniversary or birthday.

It is not as if she has ever been with anyone long enough to make it to an anniversary, either. 

Sighing, she turns to Snape. He is sitting up, having dislodged Crooks from his chest, his hair rumpled and his dark pyjamas coated in ginger cat hair. 

“Do you want to Floo to Diagon Alley together at lunch?” she asks. “If we have time after getting new wands, we can stop by the Ministry and try to sort out an annulment.”

He nods, then tilts his head to one side. “Has the Department of Magical Marriages, Births, and Deaths expanded much in the past twenty years? When I registered my mother’s death, it was little more than a single desk.”

Hermione grimaces. “I don’t think it has, no.”

“Lucky me,” he drawls. “It appears I will have a chance to thank Miss Patil for her well wishes.”

* * *

Granger doesn’t seem in danger of breaking down in tears, but Severus keeps glancing at her as they walk through Diagon Alley. As much as he loathed Moody—both the genuine version and the impostor—the old Auror’s motto is also Severus’s. _Constant vigilance_. He will not be caught unawares by a sudden torrent of sobbing on his shoulder. He learnt his lesson that time he struck up a conversation with Hagrid after Hagrid’s latest breakup with Madam Maxime. Unlike Hagrid, Granger probably wouldn’t nearly knock him over, but _still_.

The last thing he wants is for her to weep all over him, wailing about a failed romance. Teeth clenched, he walks faster.

The interior of the wand shop is as narrow and dingy as it was when Severus came here at the age of eleven. On that visit, he was practically breathless with bottled up excitement at finally getting a wand, finally being surrounded by people like him. Now, he simply misses his old wand.

Ollivander greets them both with a smile. “Ah, Mr Snape,” he says. “Cedar, 12 inches, dragon heartstring core, solid. And Miss Granger. Vinewood, 10¾ inches, dragon heartstring core, slightly springy. How can I help you?”

“We need new wands,” Severus says. “Both of us.”

“Oh, how exciting. Let’s see…” Turning to the towering stacks of dusty boxes, he plucks two from near the middle. “Vinewood and cedar, both with dragon heartstring. Best to start there.”

Granger goes first, lifting the polished vinewood and casting Lumos. The light flickers like a dying candle. Frowning, she gives her wand hand a little shake and tries again. Same dim result.

“Interesting,” Ollivander says. “Mr Snape, if you would?”

The wand feels like it belongs to someone else, fighting against Severus’s grip the instant he touches it. His Lumos is as effective as Granger’s: a weak, barely there thing. 

“ _Very_ interesting,” Ollivander says, his face brighter than both of their spells combined. “Hmm. Perhaps these?”

Ollivander brings them box after box, scrutinising the unsatisfactory results. None of them are right. None of them feel like Severus’s wand—like an extension of his own arm.

“Curious,” Ollivander mutters. “May I ask how you both lost your wands?”

“Err,” Granger says before Severus can say no. “There was a spell. We aren’t quite sure… It appears to have resulted in us being married. Our wands disappeared when it happened.”

Ollivander’s bushy eyebrows shoot up. “I see. I may have just the thing.”

Raising his own wand, he beckons a box from its spot near the ceiling. Inside, there are two wands: both the same length, both carved with the same intricate knot pattern.

“Acacia wood, 11 inches, dragon heartstring core, slightly yielding,” Ollivander says. “Give them a try.”

Severus and Granger both pick up the wand nearest them. The acacia wood hums against Severus’s fingertips. It’s not exactly like his old wand. The vibration of it feels slightly different, but it’s _right_. Both his spell and Granger’s are instant, powerful, bright. Ollivander beams at them.

Identical wands. Severus’s stomach turns over. This cannot mean anything good.


End file.
